


I Did It My Way

by barefootonabbeyroad



Category: Angst - Fandom, Drama - Fandom, John F. Kennedy - Fandom, Real Person Fiction, Robert F. Kennedy - Fandom, The Kennedys - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2020-12-29 17:17:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21144803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barefootonabbeyroad/pseuds/barefootonabbeyroad
Summary: Barbara Burke is- or was- a rising starlet. A pretty young thing with voice like honey, the prettiest pair of brown eyes Jack Kennedy had ever seen, and a million and one dark secrets. As if that weren't something the Kennedy family had enough of.**This story is extremely angsty and contains mature themes.  Trigger warnings for suicidal thoughts, sexual harrassment, implied child sexual abuse, and a significant age difference between the two protagonists. Some sexually explicit scenes will ensue. Viewer discretion is advised. Upsetting chapters will always be prefaced with a content warning. Please read the story notes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMERS:  
»I Did it My Way is purely a work of fiction, and a product of the author's imagination. Many personality traits and personal anecdotes of presented characters are based on speculation and are not supported by factual information.  
»Though historical accuracy will be upheld to the best of the author's ability, there may be minor discrepancies in dates and other real life events for storytelling and pacing purposes.  
»No disrespect is intended to any of the real life people this story depicts. It is meant only for entertainment purposes and are not meant to be presented as factual. The characters of John and Robert Kennedy in particular are meant to be seen as characters used to tell a story in the genre of historical fiction.

**Content warning: Chapter contains descriptions of suicide and suicidal thoughts.**

****

_____________________

_"Regrets, I've had a few_  
__  
_But then again, too few to mention_  
  
_I did what I had to do_  
  
_And saw it through without exemption_  
  
_I planned each charted course_  
  
_Each careful step along the byway_  
  
_And more, much more than this_  
  
_I did it my way_  
  
_Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew_  
  
_When I bit off more than I could chew_  
  
_But through it all, when there was doubt_  
  
_I ate it up and spit it out_  
  
_I faced it all and I stood tall_  
  
_And did it my way." _

__

_ _ __ _ _

_ __ _

**-"My Way" by Frank Sinatra**

____________________  
**June 1963**

_"She's so young, Jack."_

_"You're old enough to be her father, Jack."_

_"Leave her now before you're in too deep."_

The words skipped inside Bobby's head like a broken record. He'd told him. He'd told him that she was young, impressionable, fragile; that the consequences of their affair becoming public would be dire. And his brother, time and time again, had brushed off his concerns. Dismissed them as unfounded-- 'She's a smart girl', 'She's got a head on her shoulders and she sees other people', 'We're just having fun, Bob'.

But lo and behold, he'd been proven correct. She'd gone off the deep end. Another young Hollywood starlet that the industry and a Kennedy had destroyed. And Jack had broken things off. And now, as he'd done a hundred times before, Bobby had to clean up his older brother's mess. Or, in this case, make sure that cleaning up his mess didn't cost the life of a young girl or stir up a terrible scandal.

He'd been sitting in the back of his commissioned car with his half smoked cigarette for a good ten minutes, racking his brain for what in the hell to say. Bobby was a talker. He made his living arguing with people and articulating his opinions. But he had no idea what to say to Barbara when (or if) she answered her door. What was there to say? "I'm sorry my brother's a bastard, please don't tell anyone"? Barbara was a sweet woman, albeit unhinged as of late. She had come to regard Bobby highly, perhaps even more highly than the man she'd been sleeping with for three years. And he thought highly of her, too. It was only recently that he realized how much he'd miss her once Jack had finally dumped her. She was like a niece or a little cousin to him.

_God, how twisted was that?_

Inhaling all the courage he could through a drag off his cigarette, Robert Francis Kennedy, Attorney General of the United States of America, opened the car door and prepared to console the actress his brother, the President of the United States of America, had considered his ex mistress for a month now.

Despite her newfound fame and fortune, Barbara Burke lived in a modestly sized Wright-style house in Orange County. Bobby had told her that it reminded him of the Vandamm house at the end of _North By Northwest_, and she'd replied that that was exactly why she'd bought it.

Stepping away from the jet black Rolls sedan, Kennedy walked up the path that led to her doorbell, the California wind blowing through his sandy brown hair. He'd tried to call her about seven times now. She hadn't answered, and several times the line was busy. It'd probably been left off the hook. He'd tried Barbara's agent. Leo Ewing, a greaseball tycoon that she hated, for reasons that weren't hard for Bobby to guage. Ewing had told him she'd turned down a role in an Oscar worthy picture a week prior and sounded drunk out of her mind when she'd done it, and he hadn't heard from her since.

Bobby had phoned Sinatra, who'd called him a selfish mick prick and hung up on him, and the secretaries or agents of about five of Hollywood's finest male actors to see if there was any word about her. And finally he'd tracked down the number of her maid, who he knew she considered herself close to. And the maid, Elena, had told her that she'd drunkenly written her a check for $180 and told her to take the month off.

That had settled it for Bobby. He'd flown out to the west coast and he wasn't going back to Washington until he'd found her.

As he approached the door, the dog began to bark. Howie, the Yorkie Jack had bought for her last year. She wasn't out of town; she wouldn't have left that dog unattended. She adored him.

He rang the buzzer, and the dog started going crazy. Barking like mad. Three minutes passed. He rang the doorbell again. And two and a half minutes after that, he was preparing to leave and attempt to call her again from his hotel room. But finally, the incessant yapping ceased, and he heard the door unlock, much to his surprise.

It creaked open, slowly but surely, and there she was. In the flesh, dog in her arms. It had been a little over a month since he'd last seen her. She'd been all smiles then. On top of the world, beautiful, vibrant. And now, she was rail thin— probably about twenty pounds underweight, wearing a disheveled bathrobe. She wore no makeup, and her bottle blonde hair appeared long neglected and frayed; her roots now a deep shade of brown.

"Bobby?" She slurred after a good five seconds of silence between them, eyes glazed over. "Oh, it _is_ you... I've m-missed you... but don't you have... things to be doin'?" She greeted him, the twangy Georgian booney-ness more evident than he'd ever heard it in her inebriated voice.

Bobby stared at her in silence. He scanned her petite and withered figure with a solemn stare. She was drunk. Or pilled out. Very fucked up, at 10 in the morning.

"Ella..." He began cautiously as she stroked her dog's fur. "Can I come in, please? I've been trying to reach you for a week now, I've been worried about you. And I had business in California, I figured I could--"

"You know," she interrupted him, stepping aside and ushering him into the house. "Y-You're the only one who calls me Ella anymore. E-Everybody else calls me Barbara. I m-miss Ella, I think, thank you for reminding me about Ella..."

Truth be told, she looked so sloshed that Bobby didn't know how she was still standing upright. He had no idea how to respond to her incoherent musings. He stepped inside and gave his shoes a quick wipe on the welcome mat, taking a quick glance around the place. He'd been here a handful of times now, and it was always immaculately kept. It normally smelled heavenly; homey. But the scent of vanilla scented candles and freshly baked goods that always filled the living room was now gone, along with all of her sensibilities.

The young actress set her lapdog on the floor, and he padded across the floor and into the kitchen. She took a deep breath and stumbled towards the living room, plopping down on the couch and sprawling herself out. She said nothing more to him. She did not even look at him. She stared at the wall behind them, eyes hazy and jaded, and pulled her knees up to her chest. She looked like a small, terrified child in that moment. And as much as he hated to admit it, Bobby's paternal instincts kicked in.

There was silence. A long, winding silence that Bobby doubted she recognized as awkward. He wondered what she could possibly be thinking about, or if she was even thinking about anything. Why had she let him in, only to say nothing? But slowly and cautiously, and with a deep sense of dread, he approached the sofa and sat down beside her, leaving a few feet of space between them.

And finally, after several seconds of debating whether or not to touch her and finally deciding against it, he went for it. "Ella.... I'm sorry. I can't tell you how sorry I am," is all that he could settle on. And he wasn't sure how he wanted her to respond, and that scared him.

She did not answer for a long moment, only unfolding her legs and leaning forward to take a pack of cigarettes off the coffee table. She stuck a fresh Camel in her mouth and struggled slightly to steady her hand enough to light it. They were trembling like crazy; the way a decrepit old woman's hands shook. But after taking a very long and calculated drag, Ella Mae Jensen responded. "I... think I sh-should start telling... people to call me Ella again. But maybe not Ella M...Mae, Bobby, that's too Georgian... I don't got a reason to... make my name Ella again, I j-just like the name Ella. Do you... Bobby, do you like the name Ella better than Barbara?"

Bobby prematurely swallowed the lump forming in his throat. He rolled up his sleeves of his dress shirt and tried as hard as he could to appear composed. Like he knew just what to say. But that was going to get harder and harder by the second, and he knew it. "Ella's a very nice name. I like Ella better than Barbara. I think it suits you more, so... you do what you want, sweetheart," he answered absentmindedly, rolling up the sleeves of his newly pressed white shirt before continuing as she went to town on her cigarette. "Ella, why do you think I came here? Can you... do you know why I'm here in Los Angeles; why I'm here at your house?" He needed to assess how far gone she was.

This time, the pause was not nearly as long. She blew out a puff of smoke through her nose and turned towards him, making legitimate eye contact with him, much to his relief. Through her droopy eyes, she gave him a quick once over and sighed deeply. "Well... con... considering that you ain't wearing your suit coat, I kn-know you probably ain't here for actual business, did you... leave that in your car or... or... you've come to see me? I... think you came here 'cuz... y'all... y'all wanna find out what I'm 'onna do 'bout everything, but I'm just sl... sleeping, I ain't gonna... tell nobody nothing, so you can leave now if you want... to..."

Bobby stared at her in deep ponderance. He wanted so badly to put his arms around her and comfort her; make her know that he was here as her friend and her confidant so badly. But she was so frail that he was afraid to touch her. Afraid that he'd only upset her more.

"Ella... I'm not here to pay you off or threaten you or keep you in line, none of that. I promise you that I trust that you'll... keep what happened between you and... and everyone else involved." He couldn't say his name yet. It felt like a dirty word. "I'm here because I'm very worried about you. Because you've dropped off the face of the earth and no one's heard from you. No one I could reach, anyway, and Elena... I tracked down Elena, she told me you gave her the month off and that made me worry enough to come down here. You're right. This morning is... all about you, it's not about anything else but making sure you're alright. Because you are my friend and someone hurt you, and I want to help make it better."

"Bobby... I.... th-think I need to go to the grocery store. I'm almost out of dog food, but I'm too tired to go to the store, will you... help me go to the store?"

He stared at her in mild frustration, wanting so badly for a hint at how to reach her. How on earth to make her feel better. "Ellie... I... you're very, very drunk right now. Is that all you're on? Are you drunk?"

She let out an amused giggle at that, leaning back in her seat and taking a short drag from her cigarette. "No... no, I don't st-start drinking until noon. I took... some pills. They're better than the drink, Bobby."

Bobby shifted in discomfort in his seat, knitting together his eyebrows and cursing himself and his brother a hundred times over. "Okay. Okay, hon... do you want to go to the kitchen? Can I make you a cup of coffee, Ella? I want to... I want to help you straighten out so we can have a talk."

There was another wave of insufferable silence as she took a puff off her cig, and she again pulled her knees up to her chest and let out a deep sigh. "You ain't s'pposed to drink coffee when you're pregnant. That's what my Mama always told me. I d-don't know why. I guess... pregnant women's s'pposed to be tired all the time... I'm tired all the t-time."

And with that, he zapped back to life. His entire body stiffened and his chest heaved, and his face must have turned a bright shade of white. "What... what does that mean? Ella..." Finally, Bobby worked up the courage to grab her. Perhaps a bit too harshly, he took her by the arm and turned her towards him, his words turning more forceful along with his demeanor. "Ella, are you pregnant? Did..." Fuck. Fucking hell.

She let out another laugh, this one much more pained and weak than the previous. "Mm. I think that was bounda happen eventually, Bob. Jack... he's bad at p-pulling out, and I... don't always remember my diaphragm, and... both of us is... real stupid when we're drunk..." She twanged. He could smell distinctly the pungent scent of vodka on her breath, and he could feel distinctly the pain and the fear in her voice.

Bobby did not hesitate this time. His paternal instincts were guiding his movements now. All at once, he plucked the cigarette from between her fingers and placed it in the ashtray, and he pulled her into a protective, horrified embrace. She seemed caught off guard, but she nonetheless accepted the affection. She craved some form of security and he knew it, and as he squeezed her torso, she burrowed her face into his chest and squeezed him right back.

Bobby bit his lip, sure as anything in that moment that he was going to make his brother pay for this one. "Ella, I'm going to help you... I'm on your side, do you hear me? I'm... I'm on your side and I'm going to help you no matter what you decide to do. Do you want to talk about it?" _Please, God, please let her want to talk about it._

"He... didn't call me on my b-birthday, Bobby..." She replied, her grip around him tightening as her voice broke. And that was when the sobs began. Those horrible, horrible broken sobs he hoped he'd never have to hear again. "He... didn't... call me, he didn't call me, I put my ph-phone... back on the hook... to see if he'd call me... and he d-didn't call me... he m-meant it... he meant it, he h-hates me, he hates me... he hates me and I... can't take knowing he... hates me...."

"He doesn't hate you. He doesn't hate you, Ella, nobody... nobody hates you. He just realized that he... honey, he's the president, and he's married, and you are much much younger than him, and he realized he had to break it off with you before you both fell too deep—"

**"He told me he loved me!"** She screeched so loud that it probably hurt her, the sound muffled by the fabric of his shirt though making him jump in place nonetheless. "He told me he loved me... he t-told me I was the only woman he was sure.... he'd ever really loved, h-he told me he w-wanted to have children with me a-and... and that I made him... I made him happier than anybody's ever m-made him... he t-told me he l-loved me and I believed him... like an idiot.... Like a fucking idiot, I'm an idiot, I... I'm an idiot... And h-he hates me..."

Bobby could feel his pulse rising. He ran a hand through her hair, desperately attempting to comfort her somehow and some way. He was livid. Livid. Livid... for her. He couldn't believe. He couldn't believe what his own flesh and blood had done to one of the brightest and most beautiful women he'd ever met in his life. Ella was 22 years younger than Jack. And right now, that alone made Bobby want to punch him square in the fucking face.

"Ella, I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry, sweetheart, I'm so sorry that he... did this to you, I'm going to make him pay for this, I promise you I'm... going to make him pay for this, I'm on your side and I will make him pay, he doesn't hate you. He doesn't hate you, he—"

"Why didn't he call me, B-Bobby... Why didn't he call... me?" She howled, and all at once he began to rock her back and forth in a desperate attempt to soothe her. He owed her that much. He owed her some form of sleep.

"He didn't call you because... because that would've hurt you more in the long run. Because he didn't want to lead you on, and he didn't know that you're pregnant, he didn't know—"

"Y-Yes he does, yes he does, yes he does... He... I t-told him that night, I t-told him that night and I think... he... thought that I w-wanted to keep it, and he said that I was... too unstable and... unfit to be a mother, th-that this whole thing was a mistake, and I t-told him... I told him, I told him, I told him, I told him... I told him, Bobby, I told him..."

He felt utterly breathless. Never in his life had he hated his brother so much. He couldn't imagine doing what Jack had done to this girl. "What? What did you tell him, Ellie?"

"I told him... that I'd r... I'd rather die than have his baby, I told him I d-don't want a Kennedy... baby... I told him, I t-told him and he didn't... he didn't... he didn't believe me, he h-hates me and he didn't call me... on my birthday... he won't call me again, he'll never call me again, never... never, never, never... he w-won't call me again, will he, Bobby?"

Bobby closed his eyes and nosed into her unkempt hair, his heart aching. "Because, Ellie, he doesn't want to hurt you more. He doesn't want you to be hurt more than you've already been hurt... He's... a bastard, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry that---"

"He th-thought I w-wanted to have the baby, he th-thought... he thought I w-wanted to keep it but I told him... I told him no, Jack, no, I don't... want to keep it, I don't wanna keep it, I don't want his baby, I don't... want to but he didn't believe me, h-he didn't believe me, he didn't believe... didn't believe me... He hates me, he hates me, Bobby, he hates me..."

His heart skipped a beat. He could swear it. He was gonna kill him. He was gonna kill his good-for-nothing, philandering, egotistical, piece of shit brother. He had known. He hadn't broken up with her because of his conscience calling, he'd broken up with her because she was pregnant. "Ella... Ella, let's get you into bed, sweetheart... I'm so sorry, I am so sorry and I'm going to help you--"

"No, no, no, no...." She screamed, and the sound consumed his ears. She sounded like a dying lamb. It was one of the most horrific sounds he'd ever heard in his life. The sound of a young girl sobbing her eyes out. "No, I don't wanna go to bed, I... keep... w-waking... up and w-wanting to die, I have to die, Bobby, I... c-can't leave Howie, I can't leave my dog without somebody, will you take... m-my dog, please? Please... please take my dog..."

His stomach jolted, and he pressed his fingers into her back as hard as he could without hurting her. "Honey, you're not... you don't have to die, you do not have to die, Ella, are you... do you want to have an abortion? Do you... want to keep your baby--"

"No, no, no..." The starlet wailed, clinging to him as hard as she could. "N-No, I'd rather die than have his b... baby.... I want to slit... my wrists every time I th-think about having it, I wanna slash... my f-fucking wrists, and I almost did last... last night but then I r-remembered I can't kill Howie, too, I l-love my dog, Bobby, please... please take my dog..."

Ella was now practically atop his lap. He couldn't remember ever feeling so sorry for another human being in his life. She was choking on her own sobs, and he was seconds away from tearing up right along with her. "Ella... I won't let ya die, sweetheart... I won't let you kill yourself, you're not going to kill yourself, but I will help you. I will help you... we can get you an abortion, and I'm going to... I'm going to help you, do you hear me? He hurt you... he broke your heart, and I'm so sorry I let it happen. I'm so sorry." She sniffled into his shirt, letting out a series of horrific wails. He had never heard someone cry so hard in his life.

"Bobby, please... pl-please tell Jack... that I didn't want to keep it. He... won't talk to me, he won't talk to me but I want him... to know I didn't want the baby, I know... Jackie's... Jackie's... Jackie's pregnant, I would not... I wouldn't do that to him but I... am a-afraid... I'm afraid to do it again..."

"Do what?" He breathed, toying with her hair as best he could. "What were you afraid of doing again?"

"L-last time it happened..." she began, bracing herself against his body, "Last time it happened he... up and s-sent me to... a doctor in New York and it h-hurt so bad, and I went by myself... and... I don't... want to do it again, I don't want to do it again, I'd rather die... than do it again, it... reminds me... of Georgia..."

He was going to kill him. He was going to kill that sick son of a bitch, and he would enjoy it, too.

"Let's lay down, Ella... Lay down on the sofa and I'll be here when you wake up, you won't... be alone when you wake up, let's lay down... okay?"

_____________________________


	2. It's all the way with Kennedy

__[Linked](https://ididitmywayfic.tumblr.com/post/189088384344): The Beverly House in Beverly Hills, California-- This house (which recently sold for 195 million dollars, making it the most expensive piece of real estate in the country) has 19 bedrooms and 30 bathrooms, a two story library, a near-Olympic size swimming pool, a disco, two home theaters, a tennis court, and a massage parlor. Built in the Roaring Twenties for a banking executive, the mansion has been passed along to a litany of owners and is most famous for its appearances in films such as _The Bodyguard_ and_ The Godfather._ The Beverly House was the sight of John and Jacqueline Kennedy's honeymoon in 1953, and became Kennedy's west coast campaign headquarters during the 1960 election.__

________________________

**August 1960**

"Jack, y'been working too hard," Sinatra said plainly, sitting back in his seat and taking a thick drag off of his cigar. "And you and I? We're going to have a good time tonight."

Kennedy furrowed his eyebrows at that, taking a sip of his scotch and coke and shuffling through the papers in his hands. "Frank, I've got a mountain of work to do. My father'll have a cow if he finds out I went out tonight."

Frank bit down on the filter of his Cuban and adjusted the cuff of his dress shirt, a sly smirk protruding through the cloud of smoke around the singer's eager face. "You're gonna change your mind once you see the girl I've set you up with tonight."

The senator couldn't help but smile in response to that. He hadn't even said yes to a night on the town, and already Frank Sinatra was trying to get him to nab a girl. "My hands are tied. I've got a plane to catch tomorrow afternoon. The election's in less than three months. I've got phone calls to make, I've got rallies to plan, I've got--"

"I know all of that, Jackie. You don't need to lay it out for me. But let your people handle all of that. Look at your face. You got circles under your eyes, you've barely smiled since I showed up--"

"You got here less than twenty minutes ago, Frank, and there's been nothing to smile about."

"You're a happy guy, Jack! It's part of why I like you so much, even though you're a philandering mick. And to be the best Senator Kennedy you can be, you need a little help from my lady friends. A push, if you will." He chirped, stubbing out his cigar in the ashtray beside him. "You ever heard of Barbara Burke?"

Jack finished off the last of his drink, swirling the glass of ice around in his drink just to hear the rhythmic sound. "Barbara Burke? The movie star? She was in that, uh, Brando film, wasn't she?"

"That's the one," Frank replied calmly. "She's even prettier up close, believe it or not, and she's on her way over here right now."

Jack pictured what he could remember of her. Burke. She was a beautiful blonde girl, with bright brown eyes if he was remembering correctly. He could remember seeing the feature film that had made her famous the previous year-- _Two Tickets to Paradise, _was that what it was called? He could recall taking in her curves on the silver screen in her tight little flight attendant's uniform and smirking in delight.

"It's tempting, I won't lie to you," he responded after a moment's pondering. Already he was thinking of ways to put off the work. Frank was right. He had secretaries and assistants by the dozen, and he _was_ in need of a night off. A night to play. What could Jack say? He only had so much steam in him. "Have you fucked her?" He asked bluntly.

"No, no, saved her just for you, Jack..." The pop star responded with a little laugh. "She's a real floozy from what I hear, though. She's been with Grant, Brando, Dean Martin... maybe even Spencer Tracy. She goes for the tall, dark, and handsome type. Perfect for you."

Before Jack could respond, the door to the Beverly House's enormous study opened, and in walked in one of Jack's older campaign employees. Lois. She wore an unimpressed expression. "Sorry to disturb you, Senator Kennedy, but there are two young women here who say they're with Mr. Sinatra," she explained monotonously. She knew what Jack got into when he was not here, and she made it perfectly clear that she didn't approve of it without saying a word. More than anything, it was amusing to the politician.

"Thank you, Lois. Is there anything else?" He asked, both he and his companion rising to their feet.

"No."

"You and the girls can go home for the night," he said promptly. Just like that, he'd decided he was going to push back his return to Boston to the day after tomorrow just for a night alone with this Barbara girl. "Could you cancel my flight home and book me a flight for Wednesday morning, please?"

She pursed her lips, attempting to conceal her disapprobation. "Certainly, sir. I've got the list of districts you asked for on my desk."

"Thank you, Lois. You've been a great help to me," He praised her with that million dollar smile of his. "Go on home, and tell Laura and, um, what's her name..."

"Mary."

"Mary... That's right, tell Laura and Mary to go home and get some rest, too."

She did not return his smile or his warmth. Lois had met Jackie a handful of times, and though she was a loyal employee, she was a very religious and traditional woman who refused to call him anything but Senator Kennedy no matter how many times he'd asked her to just use Jack. Though she'd say it was none of her business that Jack was screwing some nineteen year old bombshell blonde on the side, he could tell she wished that it was. "Certainly, sir," Lois murmured. "Have a good night, Senator." And with that, she fumbled with her heavily pinned and sprayed matronly hair and turned to go.

Every time Jack stayed at the Beverly House, he couldn't help but be in slight awe at the pure opulence of it all. There were ornate paintings every few feet, gold trimmings everywhere, the finest Oriental rugs he'd ever seen, beautifully hand carved furniture from all stretches of Europe, grandiose chandeliers. All in the most spacious house he had ever encountered in his life. What a place to have a woman. It was like a palace, it really was.

Jack heard the echo of his and Frank's footsteps move throughout the house as he approached the foyer, where a series of makeshift desks and printed charts were scattered all about. He smiled at the three remaining members of his campaign staff as they gathered their things and prepared to call it a night, chattering amongst themselves. Laura, the gorgeous broad he'd been with on his last trip to Los Angeles, avoided eye contact with him.

And it was as he was about to make a joke to ease her that Frank greeted their guests. Jack looked up to see two beautiful young women clad in evening dresses, the wonderfully tight kind you only ever saw in California. "Hello, ladies!" Sinatra said simply, striding confidently towards them. He put his hand on the brunette's shoulders, leading her towards the living area just as the office girls made their way out.

"Goodnight, Jack," Mary sighed.

"Goodnight, Mary. Goodnight, Laura."

The younger of the two, complete with golden hair and bright blue eyes, did not respond. Jack could add Laura to his list of women who he needed to make amends with, right after his wife.

But as their heels clicked away, thoughts of Laura... what was her last name again... quickly disintegrated from his head. For now, there was no time to worry about that. He looked up at the broad Frank had hand selected for him and offered up a bright-eyed smile. As she stepped towards him, he gave her a quick once-over. She was gorgeous. Voluptuous curves, bright blonde hair, and brownish almost honey colored eyes. Her lips were painted a deep shade of scarlet, and her bright red dress was cut just below the knee and gave him a splendid view of her cleavage. As Frank had promised, Barbara Burke was even more stunning in person. "Hi, there," he began, extending her a warm hand. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Jack Kennedy."

She let out a little titter beneath her breath, extending her own palm and offering up an impressively firm shake. "I know who you are, Senator Kennedy--"

"Oh, god, enough with the Senator Kennedys already. Call me Jack, sweetheart," he insisted, putting a hand on the small of her back and leading her towards the living area.

Barbara let out an adorable titter at that. "I don't think I've ever met a Senator before. I dunno how to act around 'em," she explained. It was then that he realized she had a thick Southern drawl, one she had shed in the one movie he'd seen her in. "Is it about the same as talkin' to actors? I know plenty of those."

He smiled cheekily at that as they found their way to a sofa, where Frank was talking to the girl that Jack hadn't even been introduced to. "I'd say it's about the same," he mused. "Only we're a little more volatile towards communists than most of Hollywood is. Same amount of backdoor affairs and secrets, though."

She let out a laugh at that. He loved her laugh. It was airy and crisp; refined though filled with a childish glee. "In that case, I'll tread lightly with you. I'll bet Washington is full of _charmers_ just like Los Angeles is."

"Charmers?" He repeated, adjusting his posture slightly. "What exactly does that mean?"

The actress reached into her purse for a golden cigarette case with a sly smile, popping one into her mouth and fumbling around for a lighter. He responded by pulling his Zippo out of his pocket. "Here, I've got it." Carefully, he ignited the flame with a quick brush of the thumb and gently rested two fingers on her powdered cheek, guiding her plump lips towards the light.

Her smile widened slightly in gratitude, and she took a moment to inhale her first drag before leaning back to answer his question. "A charmer is a sorta man I've come across a hundred times. They make you laugh, and they're good in bed. But most of 'em love to lie almost as much as they love to lay women."

Jack snickered, relieved that they wouldn't have to work their way up to bedroom talk. This girl was a god sent gift. A much needed break from his work. "Well, I'm a charmer if it means making you laugh. Moan when the time is right. But let's get one thing straight: I always tell a woman exactly what it is that I want."

She let out a little sigh, blowing a large puff of smoke out. The greyish cloud contrasted against her fire engine red lips. It always seemed so sensual to him: seeing a woman with red lipstick smoke. "So tell me, Jack Kennedy. What is it that you want from me?"

He smirked, his tired eyes meeting her own sparkly, youthful ones. "What do you think I want from you?"

She mirrored his slyness, continuing work on her cigarette. "Well, when Frank called me, he told me y'all wanted a night on the town. But since you aren't wearing your suit jacket, and Frank doesn't have his hat on, I'm assumin' we're stayin' in tonight? Could that be a hint?"

And once again, he let out a mischievous chuckle. "You know, you've got the strongest Southern accent I think I've ever heard in this city. Where're you from, sweetheart?"

She shook her head in mock disapproval. "Avoiding my questions, then? I'd heard politicians were evasive, but this is ridiculous... I'm from Darien, Georgia. And yes, I know I'm very good at putting on my Yankee accent for my films."

Jack was endlessly charmed by this woman. She was witty, she was beautiful, and she was young. Way too young for him, that much he was certain of. But he was more than willing to have his fun with her. "From what I remember of the movie I saw, yes, you are... A Georgian, huh? Do I have your vote?" He was more than aware that he didn't have most of the South's vote. An awfully risky gamble, as his father loved to incessantly point out.

"Yes, sir, yes you do. First time I vote for anybody'll be when I vote for you," she retorted.

"Really? Did my _charmer_ ways strike your fancy enough to go out to the polls for the first time?" He quipped.

"No," she responded cooly. "I'm only twenty-one. And I'm from Georgia, and in Georgia, you can vote in state elections when you're eighteen, but I don't care much for any of the politicians in Georgia or their white sheets. Senator Russell don't got any nice things to say about you, by the way."

Jesus Christ. That put her at a good twenty two years younger than the middle aged senator. He let out a whistle of amazement. "You're only twenty-one? Christ... I never would've guessed."

"I get that a lot," she responded cooly. "I think it's the hair. My agent made me dye it. He said I needed to look more like Kim Novak and less like the mother from_ Father Knows Best. _His words, not mine." She lowered her voice, peering around the room and jokingly pressing her free index finger to her lips in a joking motion. "Don't tell anybody, but it's from a bottle. I do it myself. Clairol's Topez."

He sniggered. Jack liked this girl. A _lot_. "Don't tell your agent, but I could tell, honey. No trouble there, though. It's not often that I met a natural blonde in Hollywood."

Barbara ran a hand through her bobbed hair, nodding in agreement. "I miss my brown hair, truth be told. I cried the first time I bleached it. Thought I'd fried my hair forever and I'd look like an alien."

"Well, you don't look like an alien, hon. Far from it. Now... I never let you get around to introducing yourself. Do you want me to call you Barbara?"

Her eyes twinkled in delight at that. He could tell that she was delighted to have gained his attention. Truth be told, Jack wasn't used to a broad of her age being so relaxed around him. Normally, they'd blush and cower in the presence of a presidential candidate whose name was plastered on posters all over the country. It must have been the actress in her. "You can call me whatever you like, sugar," the young woman said.

He paused at that, scanning her figure once more and inhaling deeply through his nose. He was terrible with names, but he wanted to give her a nickname he'd remember. Her platinum blonde hair, bright eyes, and height made him think of a fashion doll. "You ever heard of Barbies? You know, those little plastic dress up dolls? My daughter's got one. You're as beautiful as any doll I ever saw. Can I call you Barbie?"

She finished off the last of her cigarette, her smile faltering slightly as she leaned forward and ashed the filter in a tray on the conveniently placed coffee table. "Barbie? It's been a long time since anybody called me Barbie. But sure, Jack. You can call me Barbie."

"Barbie it is, then," he beamed, adjusting his posture once more. "Can I get you a drink, Barbie?"


	3. I went down, down, down and the flames went higher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is short, but the next one will be much longer. Thanks so much for reading, liking, and commenting!

**[Linked](https://ididitmywayfic.tumblr.com/post/189088426434): Drummond Pullover Sweater Ad, circa 1962. **The ad reads: _Men are better than women! Indoors, women are useful. On a mountain, they are something of a drag. So don't call hauling them up a cliff just to show off your Drummond climbing sweaters. No need to. These pullovers look great anywhere. On the level! Entirely hand fashioned of the purest, warmest worsted in a bold, clear shaker stitch. Genuine bone buttons. _

_____________________

**June 1963**

"Evelyn, patch me through to Jack, please," Bobby urged from his place on the loveseat situated directly across from an unconscious Barbara Burke. He was doing his best to monitor the movement of her chest. God knows how much of that stuff she had taken-- already he had pocketed the open container of Valium on the coffee table, and he planned on scouring the place for any more of the drug. He had to dry her out. 

There was a brief pause on the other line. Bobby knew Jack's secretary of ten years could detect the urgency in his tone. "I would, Bobby, but he's in a meeting. It's run about fifteen minutes over already, but--"

"Who is he with?" He interjected. 

"The president of the Virginia chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution. He's congratulating her on--"

"If it's non essential and the meeting's run fifteen minutes over, then buzz him right now, please. I need to talk to my brother. And you can tell him it's urgent, too."

"Alright, Bobby. Hold for just one moment."

There was a quiet click, and Bobby adjusted his position in the bright red chair. Across from him, Ella stirred slightly with a subdued sigh, and he could feel his stomach turn. It had taken him a good fifteen minutes to lull her to sleep, and all the while, he was deciding how and when to confront Jack. There was the obvious problem: Ella's involvement in colored rights and her affair with Jack made a tap on her phone beyond likely. There was no way the Hoover administration didn't know by now that they were seeing one another; it was an open secret in Hollywood. Did Bobby want to contribute more to the mile high pile of dirt that the Feds had on the Kennedy family? No. But his anger was far too great to keep things to himself. He was already planning on being here until he could ensure Ella wasn't a threat to herself. He had already phoned his driver and asked him to collect his things from the hotel. And in Bobby's eyes, Jack needed the chew out of a lifetime as soon as possible, J. Edgar Hoover and his henchmen be damned. 

The line clicked once more. "Bobby? Everything alright?" Jack's chipper voice greeted him through the fuzzy long distance connection. 

The younger Kennedy inhaled his fury deeply through his nose, charging up his body in preparation for his reprimanding. "No, Jack, everything is not alright. Do you know where I am right now?"

Bobby could hear the sound of a flick of a lighter, and he knew his brother was starting in on his midday cigar. And the fact that he was enjoying something even as simple as cigar smoke infuriated him all the more. "Your secretary told me you flew out to Los Angeles at what, 5 AM? You were supposed to come to the Khomeini briefing this morning, what the hell are you doing in California?" The president asked.

"Jack, what day is Ella's birthday?"

There was a long pause, and the Attorney General could faintly hear the sound of Jack leaning back in his chair. "Barbara... you mean Barbara's birthday?"

"Yes, Jack, Barbara Burke's birthday. I sent her a card, and I was wondering if you sent a gift to her for her birthday. A little Barbie doll, maybe? A toy for your very favorite toy to play with?"

There was a mind numbing silence for a good twenty seconds. And Bobby sat there, fuming in his seat and waiting. "Bob, are you... are you with her right now? Is she alright?"

He cleared his throat, toying with his collar through slightly clenched teeth. "You know, it's funny you should ask, Jack, she's what you might call a little faint of heart right now. She just passed out on the couch, stoned out of her mind on downers, and do you know what she told me?"

No response. 

"She told me, Mr. President, that every time she thinks about having her Kennedy baby she wants to slit her wrists."

And this, evidently, elicited a quick response. "Bob, Jesus Christ, her phones are--"

"She also told me that you broke up with her after you got her pregnant for the second time. That she was terrified to go to the abortion clinic for the second time, and that you told her she was too unstable to be a mother--"

"Bobby," Jack snapped, lowering his voice as if it would make any difference to whoever may be listening in. "This can wait until you get back to Washington, you... _you know who_ has a wire on her phone--"

"Shut up about the fucking phones, Jack, Hoover already knows you've gotten two of your mistresses pregnant and you've screwed half of Hollywood and an alleged foreign spy! What more does this do, huh?"

And once again, there was no response for several seconds. Bobby could hear Jack swallow a lump in his throat, and he could picture him fidgeting in his seat. "I... Bob, believe me when I tell her I love her. I love her and I don't want to hurt her, and that's why I ended things. We do not need a scandal right now and she was losing it, and I told her to get help. She.. is she alright? Does she... does she really want to kill herself? Can I talk to her?"

"No. No, you cannot talk to her, she's asleep. She's sleeping, and I will not wake her up so you can make her start sobbing like a dying lamb all over again... you should have heard her, Jack, I have never heard a woman cry like that in my life. You destroyed her, and I won't let you make things worse. I told you she was young, I told you she had problems and that you were only going to hurt her, you knew about what happened to her, you knew damn well how screwed up she already was, and you were thinking with your cock like always and you--"

"It wasn't like that!" Jack interrupted. "It wasn't like that, I fell in love with her, and I think about her everyday, and I miss her very much, and she was falling apart and I had to end things before I hurt her even more. We had a great thing going, and she was seeing other men, and I figured that she would be--"

"Did you or did you not tell her that you loved her more than you loved your own wife; that you wanted to have children with her?" The lawyer shot back.

"I... I told her..." He trailed off, and dead air filled the phone line, and Bobby Kennedy could feel his heart racing in his chest, for he had his answer.

"I called you to tell you two things, _big brother._ First of all, I am going to miss my daughter's first Communion because of you. Because as always, I am cleaning up your mess, which now involves a twenty four year old who wants to commit suicide because you, a middle aged man with two children and one on the way, decided to screw with her emotions for three fucking years. You're despicable, you know that, Jack? What if she was your daughter? What if your daughter wanted to kill herself because a married man old enough to be her father broke her heart and left her pregnant and alone? And second of all, I am _done._ I'm done. From now on, I am your Attorney General. I will go to briefings, and I will advise you on legal matters and the Justice Department and the courts, but I will no longer help you cover up your affairs, or humor your locker room talk, or let you screw with naive girls without an earful, because you ruined this girl's life and--"

"She... I know I screwed up, and I know you're angry, but don't you pretend that you don't have affairs, Bob. Don't pretend like you don't go around with girls who swoon after you, or like Ethel doesn't--"

"You keep my wife's name out of your filthy fucking mouth, you son of a bitch. I'm not a saint, and I'm not perfect, and I've had affairs, but I would never, ever do what you did to a girl as young as Ella. You've been screwing your pick of the bunch for twice as long as she's been alive. And you better stay the hell away from her, do you hear me? I'm going to get her help. I'm going to go with her to the abortion clinic, and I'm going to get her a shrink, and I'm going to make her dry out from the pills and the booze she's hardly old enough to be drinking, and I'm going to be her friend through all of this. And after that, I am done being President Kennedy's patsy. You can stick your shit with Powers. I'm through, do you hear me?"

"Bobby, I want her to be alright. I didn't sleep with her to take... advantage of her, she's such a smart girl, she's smarter than me, truth be told... and she's... I didn't know how serious she was about me, and I didn't know I'd make her want to kill herself, Bob, I... I can fix this and I will, I'll help you, just tell me what to do and I'll do it. I know I screwed up. I know I did, but I want to fix my own mess this time, I swear to you I do--"

"If you want to help her, Jack, then stay the hell away from her. Do not call her, do not send her anything, do not ask around about her, do not pretend that you give half a damn about her when you left things like this knowing full well what she's been through. You leave her _alone. _She thinks you hate her, and she's better off thinking that than thinking that you can give her something you can't. She needs to get over you, and I will not let her get sucked in by your poppy cock charm anymore. Stay away from her." 

Again, there was silence, and the elder Kennedy sighed deeply into the phone. "You... Bobby, I love her. I have so much love for her, you... please tell her I don't hate her. Tell her that I want her to get help, and I want her to be better, and someday I know we can... we can be friends. I don't hate her. I could never hate her. I ended things badly, I was a bastard, but please don't let her think I hate her."

"I will tell her you don't hate her, and I'll tell her I talked to you, but I won't tell her you want to see her, because the way she is right now would make that disastrous. Goodbye, Jack. I'm requesting a week off to make sure your mistress doesn't kill herself. You have a handle on Khomeini and you're leaving for Germany soon, so you shouldn't be needing your AG too much this month."

"Alright. Requested granted," Jack said, quickly albeit somewhat awkwardly this time. "I'll see you soon, and I'll send Courtney a card and a Barbie doll for her Communion, how does that s--"

Before he could finish, Bobby had slammed the phone back onto the receiver, the bell-like clang that resulted giving him an odd sense of satisfaction. He returned his gaze to Ella, who had not stirred since he'd phoned the Oval, and swore under his breath as he dug around the wooden side table's drawer for a phonebook. He'd realized midway through the call that he hadn't eaten anything on the plane, and he was starved. It was going to be a very long day, and takeout was necessitated. 


	4. And the only time he’s satisfied is when he’s all drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: child abuse.

[Linked](https://ididitmywayfic.tumblr.com/post/189088192234): _The title card for _Gone With the Wind (1939) _starring Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable, based on the book of the same name by Margaret Mitchell. Released the same year our fictional protagonist was born, it chronicles the life and times of Scarlett O'Hara. Scarlett is a spoiled Georgian socialite whose plantation, known as Tara, is destroyed by the Union army during the American Civil War in the mid 1860s. Her life in shambles, she takes it upon herself to singlehandedly rebuild Tara after the end of the war. Along the way, she falls in love with Rhett Butler, a swashbuckling carpetbagger who leaves her after the death of their child._

_Though _Gone With the Wind _is still lauded as a classic, and regarded by some as one of the greatest films ever made, it is now criticized for its glorification of sla_very, marital abuse, and other backwards ideology of the Antebellum South. The film's opening screen crawl ominously reads:

_ **"There was a land of Cavaliers and Cotton Fields called the Old South... Here in this pretty world Gallantry took its last bow... Here was the last ever to be seen of Knights and their Ladies Fair, of Master and of Slave... Look for it only in books, for it is no more than a dream remembered. A Civilization gone with the wind..."** _

____________________

**July 1947**

An eight year old Ella Mae Jensen pulled at the skirt of her faded pink Sunday dress. The hem was nearly above her knees now, which were covered in bruises and cuts from playing Red Rover all day on the rocky soil by her school. She was growing as fast as a grove of dandelions in a cotton field; that's what her Meemaw always said.

"You wanna race, Ella?" Her older brother called to her. She'd hardly noticed his presence in spite of the fact that he'd been whistling "Yankee Doodle" beside her the entire walk to the church. Earl was wearing his nicest pair of blue jeans and an old white button up of Granddaddy's that Meemaw had to wrestle him into.

Ella peered behind them. Their father was trudging along a good thirty feet away, staring before him at the beautiful landscape as the family made their way along the path. In spite of the searing hot Georgian sun, Earl Senior was wearing a pair of bulky overalls over his starched blue shirt and a pair of worn brown work boots. His dark brown hair had been neatly combed back shortly before they were out the door, but the sweat which protruded his forehead was already causing the lard he'd used to hold it in place to come undone. He looked bitter as a lemon as he spit sunflower seeds onto the ground beside him, peering at his daughter with a surly glare. Daddy was always meanest during the hottest parts of summer, when the sun was unforgiving and the mosquitoes even more so.

"I dunno, Earl. Daddy said girls ain't s'pposed to run ahead. You can go on ahead," she replied timidly.

"Oh, c'mon!" The ten year old prodded. "The church is just down yonder," Earl gestured down the hill just before them. Across the street from the end of the path, Ella Mae could see hoards of people gathered around the First Baptist Church. The Yankee flag and the Stars and Bars hung proudly from a flagpole near the picnic goers. The promise of as much hot dogs and baked beans and potato salad and corn bread and ice cream and soda pop as she could eat made her stomach growl. Ella loved the Fourth of July, and the break from corn pow and collared greens and chitlins it gave her.

"Let's just run down the hill. Daddy ain't gonna mind it if it's the both of us runnin'," Earl continued.

Once more, Ella Mae glanced back towards her father and turned her nose in contemplation. He seemed unassuming enough. And she wanted to run through the blistering heat and get to the food and the fun. Last year, they'd handed out Chinaman fans with stars and stripes printed all over them, and she'd pretended to be a high society lady as they walked home, fondly fanning herself. But Earl had broken it the next day. Maybe they'd have those again.

"Okay, fine," the youngest Jensen breathed. Simultaneously, she and her brother stopped in their tracks. "Loser's gotta eat a whole stick of rhubarb. No sugar on it, neither."

"Okay, then. On your marks, get set... GO!" Earl bellowed, and just like that, in her too-tight mary janes, Ella was off. She soared past Earl and past all the trees, and braced herself to create traction as they made their way down the gigantic hill. She didn't hear her father scream for them to stop. And halfway down the hill, giggling with glee as she realized she was beating her big brother, Ella felt her foot get caught on something. A lightly dug hole in the ground. She felt an aching sensation in her ankle, and before she knew what had happened, she fell dramatically to the ground. Her left shoe came undone off her foot, and she tumbled all the way down to the bottom of the hill, the dried up grass scratching her already banged up legs as she tried desperately to catch herself.

As soon as she'd reached the bottom, slowly coming to her senses, Ella began to pant, already dreading what she knew was coming.

"You okay?" Earl asked her, approaching her cautiously.

Before she could respond, she heard a bellow from behind her. _**"Ella Mae Jensen, what in God's good name is the matter with you?!"** _Her father bellowed, and she jumped in place expectantly.

Ella stared at the ground, and beside her, Earl instinctively formed a barrier between his sister and his father. "Daddy, we was just playing. It was my idea. Ella didn't mean to fall, she was just trying to—"

"You shut your goddamned mouth and go onto the picnic, boy," Big Earl, as he was known among his family, fired back.

Earl stared at him for a moment, and then at his sister, who was already grief stricken and remained quiet as a mouse. "I was runnin' too, Daddy, why don't I gotta stay behind?"

The farmer popped a sunflower seed into his mouth from a pocket in his overalls, staring at him in fury. "Little boys can run and play. Little girls can't run around, especially in their Sunday best, as I've told your dimwit sister a hundred times now. You go on, boy."

"But Daddy—" He protested.

"I'm warnin' you, Junior, you go on or you're gettin' a lickin', too."

Earl looked down at his little sister, who was rising to her feet, already accepting her defeat. He let out a deep sigh through his sunburnt nose and nodded carefully, staring at her apologetically. She did not meet his eyes. "Yessir," he finally responded. "You comin' down later, Daddy? What'll I tell Meemaw?"

"Your sister and I are goin' on home. You tell your Grandmama I'll be down their after I take her back. Tell her Ella Mae's in trouble."

"Yessir," he replied quickly, and Ella watched as he dashed down the hill and towards the party. And the fun and the fireworks and the food that she was going to miss out on, all because of her stupid shoe and the stupid hole and her stupid brother and father.

All the sudden, she felt a tug on her hair, which her grandmother had tied into neat pigtails earlier this afternoon and secured with bright pink ribbons. Ella let out a loud yelp of pain. Meemaw had offered to take her to the church to help set up the picnic with all the old ladies, and Ella had declined so she could play Red Rover with the neighborhood children. And now she was regretting that decision wholeheartedly. The bruises all over her body, concealed by the loose fabric of her cotton dress, would now be joined by some more.

"Let's go, little girl," her father began, tugging her by the hair and up the hill. "You gonna learn someday to mind your Daddy. You're just like your Mama, you know it? Stubborn and stupid, always thinkin' you're right... Look where your Mama is, Ella Mae. She's dead and in the ground because of you, and you—"

"Daddy, I gotta get my shoe," she whined.

He released her abruptly and pushed her to the ground as hard as she could. She grunted in pain. "You get your goddamned shoe and don't ever interrupt me ever again, you sassmouthin', disrespectin' little bitch!"

Tears filling her eyes, the child strode up the hill and retrieved her black dress shoe, her heart racing.

___________________

**August 1960**

Barbara Burke rested her head on her pillow, letting out a series of drunken giggles at her companion's tenth hard hitting joke of the evening. He was funny. And she loved a man who could make her laugh.

"You've got one of the most contagious laughs I ever heard," Jack assured her, his nude body intertwined with hers atop one of the Beverly House's many, many guest beds. They were out of breath and sweaty from an evening of passionate lovemaking, and Ella felt on top of the world.

"You enjoying yourself, sweetheart?" The presidential candidate asked her, pecking her shoulder as he toyed with her bright blonde hair.

"Mm, you could say that," the actress teased him. "I wonder if you can do that better than Nixon."

He chuckled at that, finally releasing her in order to sit upright against the headboard. His back was killing him, and always did after sex, but that never seemed to stop him. "Are you implying that you wanna test him out?"

"Oh, god, no," the Georgian replied quickly. "I don't think I could ever sleep with a Republican in good conscience."

Jack grinned, rubbing at his shoulder with a deep breath. "Politically minded, then, are we? How'd you become such a staunch Democrat, Barbie?"

Ella paused in order to reach across the nightstand and retrieve her cigarette case for a customary post-sex fag. "Only good Republican president we ever had was Abraham Lincoln. Rutherford B. Hayes, too, but that was back when Republicans were essentially Democrats," she explained, pausing for half a moment to ignite her lighter and inhale a deep drag. "But all the bests have been Democrats since the beginning of the century. Roosevelt, of course. Franklin, I mean. Wilson was a pretty good guy. Couldn't forget about Truman. And look at what the Republicans have given us. Harding, Hoover, Eisenhower--"

He didn't bother trying to hide his intoxicated laughter. "What've you got against Eisenhower?"

"A war hungry expansionist whose cockamamie Civil Rights Act didn't amount to shit!" She shot back.

And again, Jack was reduced to delighted laughter. Clearing his throat, he ran a hand through his disheveled hair and let his eyes trail to the ceiling, trying desperately to find a comfortable position with that damned back of his. "So you're a Georgian who's in favor of civil rights?"

"Yessir, I sure am."

"I hope you don't take this to be offensive, Barbie, but how on Earth did that happen?" He'd been wondering that ever since she told him that he had her vote. How does a Southern born woman from the boonies in Georgia become pro colored rights?

"You say that like it's a crime!" Ella replied, taking another thick drag and blowing out the smoke semi-dramatically. "But it's a fair question. I'm from podunk nowhere. Blairsville's only got about four hundred people total. And I didn't grow up around colored folks, was raised to think I was better than 'em, but we were dirt poor, so we didn't have a colored maid. Didn't have any signs to segregate us cuz there wasn't any Negroes to segregate against. But when I was sixteen, I moved down to Atlanta and I saw black people for the first time. Honest to god the first time outside of the movies. And I saw how people treated them, saw how afraid they were of me. And I read about the bus boycotts and Dr. King in the papers, and I decided I didn't like it."

Jack milled over that response for a long moment, intrigued. "Do your parents know you support colored people? Do they know you're voting for me?" He asked curiously. 

The movie star pursed her lips, going to work on her cigarette as she considered her response. "Not exactly, no. My Mama died during childbirth when she had me. And my Daddy... well, I don't speak to him anymore and I haven't for a few years now. He's... we just don't see eye to eye and we never have," she explained timidly. And Jack could already tell that there was much more to the story than that, but he didn't pry. "My grandmother knows, though. And she's a sweet old lady, but she's not the sharpest tool in the shed, bless her heart. We don't discuss politics, but she doesn't have a problem telling me what she thinks of y'all."

He paused for a long while, reaching out to take her hand in his and gently stroking her thumb. "You're a really interesting woman, you know that? You're not like... well, honestly, any woman in Hollywood I ever met."

This time, she was the one who let out a laugh. "Is that so? Tell me, Senator, what are most women in Hollywood like?"

The politician jokingly grimaced at that, carefully considering his response. "Oh, well... beautiful, very beautiful, and resourceful... but not very... what'd be the word?" He paused, offering her hand a gentle squeeze. "Worldly. Yes, worldly. And you... are beautiful, and resourceful, and funny, and worldly."

Ella tried to conceal her giddiness at that, returning his affections as she puffed away on her cigarette. "Well, thank you. I try. But I bet you say that to all the girls."

"Oh, no, if a girl's vapid and dull, I just tell her she's pretty and I call it a night and never call her again," Jack assured her, and she snickered. "But that's not the case with you. I want to see you again, Barbie. I'll be back in California next month, and I think we should do this again."

She was silent for a long while, and for a fleeting moment, Jack wondered if she was going to turn him down. It made him nervous. Too nervous, he would later come to realize. 

"Okay," she finally said, and his smile widened. "I'd like to see you again, too, Jack. But only if you promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"Promise me that this is just sex. An affair that's about having fun and sex. I don't wanna fall in love with you, and I don't want you to fall in love with me, do you understand what I'm saying?" She twanged.

He let out a sigh of relief and glee. A girl as beautiful and interesting as her who wanted nothing more than sex and a few laughs? It was a dream come true. "Alright then," the senator quickly replied, turning towards her and successfully concealing his grunt of discomfort. "Let's shake on it." He extended his hand, mirroring her amused titter. "I, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, promise not to fall in love with you, Barbara..." Kennedy paused, wrinkling his nose in mock contemplation. "Do you have a middle name?"

Burke rolled her eyes, feigning annoyance. "My real name's not Barbara Burke."

"Really? What is it?"

She lowered her voice, staring at the bed in genuine embarrassment. "It's, um... Ella Mae Jensen."

He smirked at that. "God, you're as Southern as they come, aren't you? I'll have to introduce you to Lyndon sometime."

"I know, I know, I sound like Colonel Sanders and my name's more Georgia than fried green tomatoes... just shake my hand, you carpetbagging asshole!"


	5. I walk memory lane, all alone and blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: mentions of child sexual abuse.

[Linked:](https://ididitmywayfic.tumblr.com/post/189355603869) _**Jell-O Salad Ad, Ladies Home Journal, June 1961.**_ _Jell-O, an instant gelatin dessert patented in 1845 by Pearle Bixby Wait, reached its peak in popularity during the Baby Boom (1945-1965). The end of World War II saw the largest economic boom in United States history, and a subsequent emphasis on convenience and ease in everyday activities, including cooking. Marketers promoted prepackaged and easy-to-prepare foods to the surging middle class. For the average American housewife, Jell-O made it possible to create feminine and elaborately presented desserts, which emulated expensive tea time fanfare of the era. Gelatin molds were marketed alongside cookbooks, which called for ingredients like figs, dates, bananas, maraschino cherries, marshmallows, almonds, and even cream cheese to be added to the instant dessert. By the late 1950s, nearly 1/3rd of all cookbook salad recipes would be gelatin based._

**June 1963**

Bobby had settled himself into Barbara Burke's bright red loveseat with a TV tray table, emptied Chinese takeout containers sprawled out before him. It had taken well over an hour and a half for his driver to finally get it to him, even though Irvine was only fifteen minutes away, and Bobby had been so hungry that he'd resorted to digging around Barbara's kitchen for anything to eat. All he'd been able to find were three tins of Jiffy Pop, a box of Kraft Mac and Cheese, a spice rack, orange tang mix, and a near empty box of Cheerios. The fridge was as good as empty, save for a few cans of RC Cola and six mason jars filled with what looked to be homemade moonshine, which he couldn't help but find amusing. Bobby had no idea how Ella was still alive and kicking if that was all that she had stocked. It was truly a shame. She used to cook all the time, her homemade cheese grits and apple pies a crowd favorite at her house parties. They were a stark contrast to the bland Jell-O salads most women would shell out.

It wouldn't do. After pouring himself a glass of neat whiskey from the bar cart in the living room, Bobby scrawled out a grocery list: eggs, milk, bread, cheddar cheese, apples, Quaker Oats, Swanson turkey dinners, Folgers coffee grounds, Betty Crocker cake mixes, Campbell's chicken noodle soup,2 cases of Coca Cola, Friskies dog food cans... he'd thought long and hard about it. Moon pies were a last minute addition. He'd remembered that Ella adored them because she'd brought an entire box of them with her on her last trip up east. He'd handed that and a generous $15 off to Terry, the stand-in chauffeur, as soon as he'd arrived with the takeout, and directed him to go to the nearest grocery store. Maybe a butcher shop for some deli turkey if he saw one. Bobby had grabbed his suitcase from the back of the car and paced back inside to call and cancel his hotel reservation.

The TV had been tuned into ABC, and almost precisely at 3 o'clock, the _American Bandstand _theme song came pouring through its speakers. Bobby scanned the screen, sipping at the last of his concocted RC Cola and Jack Daniels. He marveled at a teenager on the screen whose hair was a good six inches higher than the crown of her head. It made him think of home, and how just the other day, his eldest daughter had told her about a girl at Sunday youth circle who had torn off a chunk of her hair by rolling it with orange juice cans. Women did the damndest things for fashion, that was one thing he'd learned.

"We're delighted to have you!" Dick Clark's voice greeted him from the set. "Nancy Sinatra's our special guest this afternoon on American Bandstand, we'll roll for the next half hour or so. This particular portion of the program is brought to you by delicious Dentyne chewing gum. Dentyne helps to keep your teeth sparkling white and beautifully clean," he announced. "Charlie O?"

"Bobby?" A groggy voice, hoarse enough to sound sickly, called to him from the couch.

Bobby cocked his neck towards her so quickly that it nearly gave him whiplash. "You're up! Just in time for Bandstand," he greeted her, forcing a smile.

Ella sat upright, stretching her legs and blinking rather erratically. "How long've I been asleep?"

"About three hours. I had my driver pick up some takeout and some groceries. Do you want some Chinese? I remembered you liked almond chicken. There's some in the fridge."

She turned her nose at that, pushing aside the throw blanket he'd dotingly draped over her. "I'm not too hungry right now, Bob. But thank you. I can pay you back for all that... did you get, um--"

"Dog food?" He interjected. "Yes, yes I did. Cans of Friskies, that's what we give our dogs. And don't worry about the groceries, hon." He paused, scanning her bone-thin figure with a tightlipped stare. "I think you should try to eat something, Ella. Anything. I got you moon pies, I know you love those. There's eggs, there's turkey dinners, oatmeal--"

"I'll eat a moon pie," she croaked, rising to her feet and cocooning herself within the wool blanket.

"Good. I'll go get it. You just sit," Bobby insisted, standing from the chair and trudging to the kitchen to retrieve what Ella had once told him was 'the working man's lunch' in the Southern states: a packaged moon pie and an RC Cola. He fished two pies out of the box, one for her and one for himself, and grabbed the last two cans of cola from the fridge.

While he was away, Ella must have slid on her glasses and lit up a cigarette to watch TV. She rarely wore them, at least in his presence; only ever her contact lenses, which he could remember falling out of her eyes and prompting a full blown search party on multiple occasions. They made her look very bookish. Plain, black framed wayfarer glasses that he only ever saw men wear. She looked up at him and flashed him a smile when he saw what he was carrying.

"You remembered," she marveled, staring up at him in appreciation as he popped open her can and set the meal on the sleek black coffee table before her. "My Daddy used to hand me and my brother a moon pie and an RC Cola for lunch every single day. That was all that was ever in our lunch pails," she recanted. "They didn't even carry Coca Cola at the corner store by our house. Everybody in Tennessee and Northern Georgia drinks RC. That's it."

Bobby tried to keep his expression from faltering at the mention of Ella's father. He was just glad she was feeling apt enough to talk to him normally. "I don't think I ever even had an RC Cola until I met you. All we drank as kids was Coke. And later on, rum or whiskey with a little Coke."

Ella let out a giggle at that, reaching for her soda and taking a hefty gulp from the can with her free hand. "If you're from Blairesville, all you drink is hooch and RC Cola. That's it. The only water you drink is the water from the pump when you're washing up your face for supper and it gets in your mouth, and maybe the Holy Water the reverend uses to baptize you as a little baby tricklin' down the same way," she explained, going to work yet again on her half-smoked cigarette.

Bobby smiled at that, relieved that he'd engaged her in some sort of conversation. "God, I can't stand the taste of moonshine. Brown liquor's all I can stomach."

"You micks and your fucking whiskey... Whiskey tastes like chicken piss mixed with gasoline. I can't stand it. I only keep it around because everyone who comes here asks for it. I stick to my hooch and my vodka. And my wine."

He shrugged, letting out a laugh at her vulgar choice of words. It wasn't hard for Bobby to understand what Jack saw in Ella. She was the polar opposite of most of the women in his life. A country bumpkin, salt of the earth, and blunt as a hammer. If there was one thing his older brother loved in women, it was variety. "I tried mixing the RC with some whiskey. It's awful," he managed after a moment's pause.

"That's cuz it's a Southern delicacy, and Southerners don't like mixing their drinks. If you're gonna drink a hard liquor, you drink it straight. No time for mix-ins. Right out of the bottle if you're anything like my Daddy."

Bobby couldn't stand the thought of entering a conversation about Ella's father, the man who had probably offhandedly caused the mess she was in now. He'd do anything to steer the conversation away from that. "You don't like cocktails, then?" Kennedy offered up.

"Oh, sure, I love Moscow Mules and Cosmos as much as the next girl. But if I want to get drunk? Hooch is how I do it. That stuff in the fridge is a family recipe that's older than this godforsaken city. You wanna try some, Bob? It's better than that piss and coke you've got there, I can promise you that," she offered.

Bobby sat back in his seat, grinning genuinely as Connie Francis raved about her brand new MGM musical film from the television set. He was relieved that she seemed to have forgotten all about her torrid affair and the fact that she was carrying his illegitimate niece or nephew. They were talking as though it were old times. "You do realize you're talking to the Attorney General, don't you, Ella? I could have you arrested for illegal underground production of alcohol if I wanted to."

She twitched her nose at that, leaning back in her seat and finishing off the last of her cigarette. "Then you'd have to arrest that bootlegging Daddy of yours, too... or I guess there'd be a statute of limitations on that, wouldn't there be? You'd know better than me."

He let out a chortle, kicking off his shoes in order to rest his legs on the ottoman before him. "You don't regard him too highly, do you?"

Ella inhaled deeply through her nose, eyes returning to the television. "No. I do not. And neither does Jack, truth be told, but you didn't need me to tell you that."

Bobby felt himself stiffen ever-so slightly at the first mention of his brother since her dramatic meltdown just hours prior. Before he could process the meaning behind her words, Dick Clark's voice announced the next portion of the program, and Ella became transfixed on the TV set.

"Here's one of the biggest request songs of the day, The Hippies and 'Memory Lane'!" The Bandstand host declared proudly.

"Memory Lane, doot doo doo doo doowa, Memory Lane, doot doo doo doo doowa... I walk Memory Lane, all alone and blue... You walk Memory Lane with somebody new... Sharing a kiss, a kiss that used to be mine..."

The starlet began to hum along to the song beneath her breath as a group of teenagers slow-danced on the screen. Bobby scanned her frail body pensively, wondering what in the world she could be thinking about. He wished very badly that he could read her mind, and know what to expect from her. She was seemingly evaporating into the head case woman that had greeted him at the door. Her eyes began to glaze over longingly, and instead of reaching for her moon pie as he'd expected her to, she fumbled around for her pack of cigarettes and stuck yet another one into her mouth. Her eyes never once left the television set as she lit up her second post-comatose fag. And his worry begin to set in all over again.

"Hon, eat your moon pie. I sent my poor driver into town to scour the aisles for those just for you, you know. He'd probably never even heard of a moon pie until today," he coaxed her joshingly.

But she said nothing. Smoke flowed out of her nostrils, and her doe eyes were longingly glued to the TV set as though she were witnessing the apocalypse rather than listening to a shitty teeny bopper song that was incessantly played on the radio.

"Ella," he tried once more. "Are you alright?"

She was quiet for a long moment, the only sound in the room being the television and of her flicking ash into her nearly overflowing tray. "Bandstand was on in the background the last time I got fucked. It was... a week ago now. With this fella who's a set designer for Paramount." There was a very long pause as Bobby tried to discern how in the world to respond to that. But she filled the silence for him. "Did you ever see _Sunset Boulevard?_ You know, with, uh, with Gloria Swanson, where she goes off the rails and shoots William Holden at the end? I was thinkin' the whole time about how much he looked like William Holden, and how funny that was... because William Holden's character's a writer at Paramount in _Sunset Boulevard."_

Finally, she turned away from the screen and looked directly at Bobby. She looked despondent and almost drunken with her half lidded expression, even though half a minute ago she'd seemed chipper. Normal. "Y'know, speakin' of, I'd heard a rumor that your Daddy fucked Gloria Swanson. Is that true? I ain't ever met Gloria Swanson before, but I heard she's a real bitch. I think it was Spencer Tracy who told me that, actually. He's... he's good in bed. He's not as good as Dean Martin, but he's better than Greg Peck. Or maybe I just caught Greg on a bad day."

Bobby couldn't remember the last time he'd been caught so off guard, and he worked in Washington, for god's sake. His eyes returned to the television screen, where the girl with the six inch high hair was dancing on screen with a homely looking boy alongside a dozen other kids. Jesus Christ. She'd lost her mind. He was convinced of that now.

"I... I don't know about my father and Gloria Swanson, Ella," he finally managed, even though Jack had told him about that a few years back now. It had embarrassed him then, and it embarrassed him now that it was something she knew about his family on top of everything else. "But, um, why don't you try to eat something and then get some rest upstairs? Howie ran up there awhile back. Do you need me to feed him?" He needed to do something, anything, to get her mind off of men. Sex. He'd gathered about that much.

The movie star sat back in her seat and took another drag off of her cig. "When I first got Howie, I was screwin' somebody, I think it might've been Paul Newman, and we had the door shut, and he started yapping. It was right in the middle of it, y'know, and it was Paul Newman, and he usually lasts, y'know, a good forty minutes, so I was thinkin', 'Christ, what am I gonna do about that goddamned dog? I wanna be able to come without getting the fuckin' theme to Lassie Come Home stuck in my goddamned head', he sounds like one of those little yip yap dog toys, but he don't got no wind up and so he never shuts the fuck up... and we just had to bear with that, y'know."

Ella always had a way of saying something outlandish and raunchy at the most bizarre of times. And normally, it was funny, but now it made Bobby every kind of uncomfortable in the book. The lawyer got up from his seat and switched off the TV set, assessing what in the hell to say. Clearly, she wasn't taking in anything he was saying in his vain attempts to change the subject. His eyes trailed to the carpet as he took a seat beside her on the couch, and he began to peruse around the sleek and modern space age furniture as he considered his choice of words.

"Can you... Ella, can you tell me why you're thinking so much about... what made you start thinking about all the men you've... been with? Do you understand what I'm asking you? What got you thinking so much about sex?"

She stared at him blankly, biting her lower lip as she flicked more ash into the tray. The smell of tobacco filled Bobby's nose along with an acute sense of anxiety forming in his chest. He wasn't ready to see her come undone again. But he blamed himself for all of this, almost as much he blamed Jack for it.

"I... I dunno, truth be told. It don't really matter, though. Why'd you turn off the TV? I like havin' the music on in the background. Watching all the kids dancing. They're so awkward sometimes. It's real cute," she mused.

"Because... because I wanted to talk to you, sweetheart. We can turn it back on in a minute. It's an hour long program, isn't it?" He paused, deciding that he, too, was in need of a cigarette. He reached into his breast pocket for his gold case and placed one between his teeth, leaning forward to retrieve Ella's Zippo from the table. "Do you watch _Bandstand_ everyday?"

"Oh, you gotta gold cigarette case just like Joe did in _Sunset Boulevard._ I just love that movie, Bobby... I can't believe how old it is now. I was only a little girl when it came out. My Granddaddy used to drive me and Earl into Hiawassee to see movies cuz there wasn't a theater in Blairsville, and I remember being in awe of Norma Desmond. I always wanted to play a crazy lady like that. It'd be real fun."

Bobby took in his first drag off his cigarette, and his eyes shifted towards his deluded companion. He wasn't making any progress with her. Nothing he was saying seemed to resonate with her. He was afraid he was going to have to say something to upset her in order to zap her back to life, which was the last thing he wanted to do. "Ella, I'm... you're scaring me right now. We aren't having a coherent conversation right now, you're in your own little world. Can we talk about something? The weather, your career, the Soviets, American Bandstand... what do you wanna talk about?"

She sighed deeply, considering his words with a spaced out expression. Camel cigarette smoke crept closer and closer to his eyes as the fag stayed lit between her fingertips with no ignition from her breath. The silence began eating away at him.

"I wonder if my Daddy woulda touched me if he knew how fucked up it woulda made me, Bobby."


	6. See how the main sail sets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the very late update! I posted this chapter to Wattpad and forgot to do the same on here. Enjoy! Sorry it’s a short entry!

[Linked](https://ididitmywayfic.tumblr.com/post/190169966489): **Revlon 'Colors Unlimited' magazine ad, 1961.** _In the early 1960s, the lipstick industry was booming. World War II saw over 94% of married women begin to wear red lipstick as a statement of patriotism and support for the war effort, and teenage girls began to buy lipsticks for the first time as part of the emerging 'bobby soxer' subculture. The beginning of the Baby Boom did not see this trend dwindle. Lipstick became a staple in the average American woman's appearance, regardless of class or race. With the late 1950s and early 1960s came much more variation in lipstick shades, and more relaxed societal views on what the shade of a woman's lipstick indicated. Prior to this era, only married women and prostitutes wore red lipstick. An increase in the use of technicolor film and a desire in unwed women to emulate Hollywood starlets' styles, as well as a rise in the number of adolescents purchasing makeup, caused lipstick marketers to encourage women of all ages and statuses to wear different varieties of lipstick. By the mid 1960s, red lipstick began to lose its favor in the case of everyday wear almost entirely to nude and pink shades, and would not become a staple in a woman's daily routine again until the rise of the disco era in the late 1970s._

**August 1960**

"Rise and shine, lovebirds!" Frank Sinatra sung out from outside the door to the guest bedroom. His voice was accompanied by three swift knocks. "Get up, Jackoby!"

Jack stirred from beneath the sheets, letting out a little groan through his pursed lips. His eyes fluttered open to meet the back of his companion for the night's bottle blonde helmet of hair, which his nose had been nestled into all night. She was breathing softly; having fallen into a deep, alcohol induced sleep. Her makeup from the previous night was now smeared, but she still looked beautiful. And she still smelled like floral perfume, which had enticed him from the get-go.

"Hey, Barbie," he whispered, giving her a gentle nudge and offering up a quick kiss to the top of her head. She batted her liner-rimmed eyes, and he took note of one of her false eyelash bands coming undone from the center.

Barbara let out a tiny yawn and turned in place slightly. Her eyes shot open all at once, and she smiled softly at his greeting. "Good morning, Senator," the actress sighed.

"Jack, get up already! Are you comatose or something?" Frank pressed, adding in another set of knocks.

Kennedy pulled his arm out from underneath Barbara's petite body. The politician took note of how it had fallen asleep at some point during the night and now seemed numb from impact. Jack's lovers always woke up within his arms come morning. He was a cuddler through and through, and his wife was not. She liked her space. When circumstance allowed for it, he'd hold a girl's body against his own as closely as he could. "Alright, already!" The Bostonian called back to him. "We're up! Meet you downstairs in half an hour!"

"No need for hostilities, Jackie, I'm just hungry. Hey, Barb, will you make us breakfast? Jack's got groceries down in the kitchen," the singer inquired through the thin brown door.

Barbara sat upright, pulling the silk sheet up over her exposed chest and nodding as she ran her free hand through her bedhead. "Sure, Frankie. Go through everything and tell me what you want me to make, will you?"

"You got it!" And with that, the two of them heard footsteps retreating towards the stairs down the hall.

Jack's eyes trailed towards the analog alarm clock on the nightstand. It read just past nine o'clock, which made him sigh with content. Visits to the west coast always meant sleeping in for the senator. His back always seemed a little less sore when he slept in; his eyes a little brighter. "So you're a cook, then?" He asked innocently as she rolled out of bed. He snuck a glance at her nude body before she made a grab for clothes scattered about on the floor. She shielded herself with the bright red dress she'd worn last night and made a grab for her ivory bra and matching girdle.

"Of course I am," Barbara responded, picking up the large black handbag she'd brought with her. "I'm from the middle of nowhere. All women do for fun is cook and play jacks. My Meemaw taught me how to cook when I was a little baby."

"Your Meemaw?" Jack repeated with a sly smirk as she dropped her gown to the floor and pulled out a fresh change of clothes. His eyes scanned her body as she retrieved a pair of frilly white panties and began dressing herself. That was something all the women he slept with in Los Angeles and Vegas seemed to do: bring a change of clothes with them in their purses. Back east, women didn't even use bags that were big enough to do so.

"Meemaw. Grandmother. You call your grandmother 'Meemaw' or 'Grandmama' in the South," she drawled as she pulled on a pair of blue and white checkered capri hiphuggers and fastened her undergarments into place, slipping on a matching blue sleeveless blouse. Once again, something very West Coast. All the girls up east would wear were dresses. Knee length dresses and stuffy stockings over girdles that took an eternity to unfasten.

"I don't think I've ever heard that before. I guess I don't know much about the South," Jack replied, rolling out of his side of the bed and trudging towards the dresser, where he had a few outfits stashed away. He selected a pair of boxers, Levis, and a blue button up from within the drawers.

"You don't mind if I use your soap to wash my face, do you, Senator?" She trilled from the bathroom.

"Have at it, citizen," he responded as he zipped up his jeans. His back was throbbing right at the center, and he squeezed his eyes shut in pain as he slid his arms through his shirt sleeves.

He heard the faucet turn on, followed by an irritated groan. "Goddammit. I slept in my fucking contact lenses again," Barbara moaned.

Jack padded across the hardwood floors and towards his lover for the day, the boards creaking against his bare feet. "They hurting your eyes?" He asked as she prodded at her big brown pupils and slid the lenses out, proceeding to peel off her withered falsies directly afterwards.

"Mm. I was wondering what was buggin' 'em so much. I only just got 'em and they drive me up a wall. Always falling out, and they hurt my eyes all day if I sleep in 'em the night before. But I can't see for shit without them in," Burke sighed as she dug through her purse for her floral plated contact case and a matching makeup box. She carefully placed them within the tiny tin and then went to work scrubbing her face with the ivory bar soap that Jack had brought on his last visit to the house.

Jack opened the vanity drawer of the Jack and Jill style bathroom and pulled out his shaving kit and comb, smiling at her through the mirror as he lathered on his Barbasol. "Just gonna rough it and be blind today, then, Barbie?"

"Nah, I've got my glasses, thank Christ," she responded as she patted her face dry and pulled out a bottle of Binaca cinnamon breath spray to give her mouth a quick spritz. Jack couldn't help but smirk. She'd brought everything she needed for a night out, hadn't she? "Do you have any deodorant I could borrow by chance?" The movie star asked innocently.

Well, everything sans one thing, he guessed. Maybe deodorant wasn't innocuous enough. "Sure thing. It's in that top drawer," he replied, gesturing carefully as he made the the first swipe with his razor. 

The younger of the two reopened the wooden drawer and pulled out Jack's bottle of Gillette Right Guard, offering the both of her underarms a generous spray before finally setting to work on her hair and makeup. It was then that he took note of how beautiful she was without a stitch of makeup on. Barbara Burke was a regular beauty, in spite of the tiny patches of redness throughout her complexion. She looked decidedly better this way, in his opinion. Much more natural and much more adjacent to the hickish, salt-of-the-earth personality he'd come to admire.

In spite of this, Jack was always fascinated by the way a woman applied her makeup, and Barbara would be no exception. He watched intently through the mirror as she applied a generous amount of Volupté face powder, the same one Jackie used, followed by bright pink rouge and a generous coat of Max Factor mascara. She coated the eyelashes she'd used the night before with a layer of that fishy-smelling glue and applied them to her eyes once more, and then added the finishing touch as Jack began brushing his teeth: Revlon's Cherries in the Snow, which he would later recognize as her signature lipstick shade.

Barbara began fluffing her thick blonde hair, carefully combing through it with her fingertips. She'd finished her morning routine at the exact same time Jack had, which impressed him a great deal. He'd combed his hair and applied a generous layer of Dep gel atop the finished product by the time she'd slipped on her black browline glasses, which had been tucked away in one of her purse's pockets. The senator was endeared at the sat. A very feminine woman in a pair of very masculine glasses, and she was still drop dead gorgeous. And as soon as he'd applied his deodorant and finished buttoning his shirt, he'd grabbed her hand and ran his thumb over her own. "You're gorgeous, you know it?"

She grinned, stringing her arms around his neck and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips before wiping away the residue it left on his lips with her bright red manicured thumb. "I reckon you aren't so bad yourself, Jack."

That was the first time she'd called him by his name all morning. He wrapped his arms around her waist, staring down into her eyes under the dim lighting the bathroom offered. He took note of how his heart fluttered within his chest before he kissed her dimpled cheek. "We'd better go downstairs," he murmured, though he found he resented the notion slightly. "Frank's not exactly the patient type."

"Alright," she replied breathily after a moment. "Should I leave my things up here or do you need me out after breakfast?"

He skimmed her body once more, floored at how much his stomach sank at the idea of her leaving so soon. "No, no, doll, I don't have to do anything until around five," he lied. That most certainly wasn't true. Jack had gotten a little less than half of the things he was supposed to have finished by last night done, but he just couldn't stand the idea of cutting the day short with this girl. "Can you stay?"

She nodded after only a moment of hesitation. "I told my agent I'd meet him for lunch, but I'd much rather spend a day in the sun then watch him give me the up and down for an hour straight," she mused, and he took note of the bitterness that the statement was shrouded with. "Let's go. I'm gettin' pretty hungry myself," she whispered beneath her breath, pulling away from his hold on her and tugging him towards the bedroom. The two of them slid on the shoes they'd kicked off in the throes of lovemaking and then padded down the stairs and to the house's elaborate kitchen, still hand in hand.

Frank and the woman who'd arrived with Barbara the night before, who Jack had never been properly introduced to, were seated at the mahogany kitchen table and laughing amongst themselves over two mugs of coffee. Jack offered the woman a nod, which she reciprocated fondly. Sinatra looked up at the two of them and offered them both his signature smile. "Hey, Elefantessa! Glad you two finally made it down. Listen, I want you to make that french toast you made me and Dino the last time I saw ya. I was drooling earlier just thinkin' about it."

iShe mirrored his smile and nodded earnestly, her kitten heels clicking against the floor as she scanned the ingredients Frank had lay atop the counter for her. "You got it, Sly. It'll take me about half an hour, is that alright with y'all?"

Before Frank could respond, Jack butted into the conversation. "What'd you just call her?"

"Elefantessa," Frank repeated. "It means 'elephant' in Italian, y'know, cuz her real name's.... 'Ella Mae Jensen'," he explained, pronouncing her name with an exaggerated southern drawl. "If she ain't already told ya. And she calls me Sly. A very southern nickname for a very WOP-ish man."

Jack smiled at that, retrieving a ripe Granny smith apple from the bowl of fruit at the center of the table and biting into it. "Leave it to you to call a woman an elephant."

"Oh, zip it, you butt chinned bastard," he shot back.

Jack tried to suppress his laughter at that, and from behind them, Barbara let out a chortle. "Alright, you two, how many slices am I making?"

"I want four," Frank declared from his chair. "If that isn't too much to ask. Jack, this girl's french toast is to die for. It's better than my ma's, and that's saying something," the Italian insisted. "One of the only cookin' women in all of Hollywood. Tina here can't cook to save her life, but we love her to death."

Tina. So that was her name. He'd have to try and remember that.

The actress nodded with another little giggle. "Alright, four for Frank... Tina I reckon'll only have one... how many for you, Senator?"

"Hm... I'll go for two. I'm not a heavy eater in the morning," he decided.

"Alrighty, then. Would you do me a favor and turn on the radio? I like to listen to music while I cook," she requested, gesturing towards the old style transistor radio on the windowsill.

"Sure thing, Barbie," he agreed, taking a few steps forward and tuning it to what he'd memorized as the pop music station. He always had to fiddle around with the antenna on it to get the damned thing to cancel out any static, much to his irritation.

An ad for the newest Chevy Corvair model buzzed through the speakers after a moment, and Jack quickly adjusted the volume as Barbara began to crack eggs into a shallow porcelain pie dish beside him.

"What time do you need us out of here, Jackoby?" Frank asked him nonchalantly, reaching into his pocket for his cigarette case.

"Well, actually, I was wondering if the two of you wanted to go for a sail in the bay today with me and Barbara," he replied, eyeing Barbara curiously.

Sinatra let out a laugh at that as he lit up his morning cigarette. "What happened to the mountain of work you told me about last night?"

"Oh, I had more squared away than I'd thought," Jack lied. "I can have the girls get most of it done as long as I'm back by tonight. What can I say, Frank? The California air beckons me. Been too long since I went sailing in the Pacific."

"Well, I'm up for it," Frank replied as Barbara peered around the kitchen and tracked down the breadbox. "What about you, Tina?"

"I'll come," the brunette nodded enthusiastically. "Should we pack a lunch?"

"I can make some sandwiches. Y'all like egg salad?" Barbara chimed in as she added sweet spices from the rack to her concocted mixture.

"Sure I do. God, I swear I gain five pounds any time we hang around together, Barb. You've got a God-sent gift."

"It ain't anything divine, Sly. I've just had far too much practice," the blonde insisted.

"Well, it's settled, then. We'll all go sailing for the afternoon. I'll call that boat rental place we used last time, the one on Palisades," Jack noted, punctuated by a crisp bite from the apple core.

"Sounds good, Jackoby. I'll drive. You need to call your old man before we go, too? For his permission to go out and play with your friends?" The singer teased, smoke billowing out of his nose.

Jack rolled his eyes, running a hand through his neatly combed hair as the deejay on air went through the week's Billboard Hits. "Shut up, Frank."

And several more minutes of rude banter on Sinatra's behalf, an occasional snicker from his lady friend, and Barbie's clanking around in the kitchen ensued. Jack felt himself unwind more and more by the second in the relaxed atmosphere created by his companions. He liked to goof off about three times more than he liked to work, and that worried him from time to time.

"And at number four, ladies and gentleman, a new and very swing-tastic number... This one's featured in Oceans 11, that's the new feature action film starring Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Peter Lawford, Angie Dickinson, and Sammy Davis. It's in your local theater now, in beautiful technicolor, and yours truly can't recommend it enough. Here's Dean Martin's 'Ain't That a Kick in the Head'," the broadcaster announced, and the intro to Martin's swanky love ballad bursted through the speakers.

"Hey, turn it up, will you, Jack? Elefantessa, your boyfriend's on the air!" Frank called out to Barbara, who was busy frying her readied slices of toast on a newly buttered skillet.

Jack adjusted the cuff on his shirt sleeve and obliged, stepping towards the windowsill and taking note of the sly smile on Barbie's doll-like face as she flipped her toast. He turned the volume dial a few notches up, and Frank began humming along to the tune.

”If he knew you were callin' him my boyfriend, he'd be runnin' for the hills, Sly," she retorted.

”Oh, poppy cock," Frank said with a quick wave of the hand. "He's crazy about you. And about eight other women, granted, but what would our illustrious Dino Crocetti be without you, Ella Mae Jensen?"

Jack couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at this new revelation. The previous night, Frank had told him that Barbara had slept with Dean Martin. Not that they were anything beyond tango partners.

"_My head keeps spinnin', I go to sleep and keep grinnin'... if this is just the beginning, my life is gonna be... be-u-tiful," Ella sang along to the song's chorus, gently swaying to the rythmn of the saxophone._

And it was then that Jack decided to do something in keeping with his current happy-go-lucky attitude. Just as the actress lifted her first two slices of toast off the pan and onto a plate, he grabbed her hand and adjusted her arms to begin to lead her in a waltz. It had been awhile since he'd danced with anyone. The campaign trail had interfered with his obsession with romance as of late, and he wanted a keen dancing partner. Even if it was at 10 AM in the kitchen of a house that didn't belong to him.

Barbara stared at him in surprise, but let out an enthralled laugh. Jack wasted no time in expertly parading her about the room, smiling down at her dotingly. She was a very good dancer, he quickly realized, and he couldn't help but wonder where she'd learned.

"You're just full of surprises, y'know it, Senator?" She giggled as he dipped her semi-dramatically.

”Right back at you, citizen."

"_She's telling me we'll be wed, she's picked out a king-sized bed... I couldn't feel any better, or I'd be sick..."_ Martin crooned as the song came to a close, and all of the sudden, Jack halted. He relaxed his arms and tilted downward to kiss his partner, his firm hand still gripping her own.

"_Tell me quick, oh, ain't that a kick? Tell me quick, ain't that a kick in the head?"_


	7. Watchin’ the tide roll away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all! So sorry for how late this update is coming to you. Life got very hectic! I am going to try and update all of my writings on here much more regularly— it's one of my New Year's Resolutions. If you like this story, please be sure to check out my others! I'm writing a Godfather fanfiction with a female protagonist (I Do Renounce Them) full of lots of twists and turns, as well as an angsty love story about an original character and Marlon Brando (Nothing Can Change This Love). Chapter two of that will be up some time in the next week. Also, please note that this fic is featured on Wattpad, where my username is the same as it is here (barefootonabbeyroad). I tend to post chapter updates a day earlier there (and I can actually paste the pictures I use into the text). 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Comments/feedback are always much appreciated.  
xoxo,  
Jackie

[ **Linked** ](https://ididitmywayfic.tumblr.com/post/190472682899) [**:**](https://ididitmywayfic.tumblr.com/post/190472682899) **Bobby Kennedy and actors Marlon Brando and Robert Vaughn at the Democratic National Convention; Los Angeles, July 15th, 1960. ** _The Kennedy administration saw one of the largest and most vocal bouts of celebrity support of any president thus far. In 1955, during Jack's reign as a Senator, actor Peter Lawford married Kennedy's younger sister, Patricia. It was through Lawford that Kennedy was introduced to the world of Golden Age Hollywood. Because of his youth and charm, as well as his taste for partying and sexual escapades, he befriended many of the industry's greatest. Kennedy was able to secure publicized support from a multitude of celebrities, including Frank Sinatra, Marlon Brando, Cary Grant, Judy Garland, Grace Kelly, Bing Crosby, Dean Martin, Sammy Davies Jr., and Lawford himself. Kennedy was infamous for attending celebrity-thrown parties in Los Angeles and Las Vegas from the mid 1950s until his death in 1963. His alleged affairs with Marilyn Monroe, Anita Ekberg, and Angie Dickinson were secured by his Hollywood connections. Jack's popularity among celebrities would extend to Bobby's campaign for presidency in 1968. _

**June 1963**

Bobby stared blankly at the television screen, still shell-shocked from his conversation with the now-slumbering Barbara Burke, which had occured a little less than an hour ago now. Woody Woodbury was interviewing an eager couple on _Who Do You Trust?_ with a dopey smile on his face. Everyday at 3:30 Eastern Standard Time, the first half hour of _American Bandstand_ would conclude on ABC, and Who Do You Trust? would run until 4, when Dick Clark would return with the last portion of _Bandstand_. Bobby had always found it odd that such a popular teenybopper show would be put on hold for a portion of time, in favor of a boring game show that featured middle aged couples looking for a cash grab.

The premise of _Who Do You Trust?_ was odd. Two people, usually husband and wife, would be interviewed about their boring lives for several minutes by the host. After a commercial break, the husband would be given a question category, and if he determined he didn't know enough about the subject matter, he would pass it off to his wife, implying that he 'trusted' her to know more about a particular subject than he. The questions were always about current events or politics that most people knew. It was very mundane. Truth be told, he much preferred _American Bandstand._ Watching the kids dance reminded him of his own youth, and of his children at home.

Bobby used his cocktail straw to stir around the scotch and coke, a cigarette between his fingers. He'd finally gotten Ella to go upstairs and get into bed. The Attorney General was at a loss for words, and evidently, action. What was there to do for her? Calling a psychiatrist, for one. But he couldn't just leave her here with no one to care for her. Inevitably, Bobby would have to go back to Washington, and he would not be able to prevent the young actress from spiraling further into a nervous breakdown. 

Ella's older brother had died in Korea, which she'd told Bobby herself a good while back now. Her grandmother was old and senile now, and an old Georgian woman probably wouldn't take kindly to Bobby Kennedy calling her about her granddaughter in the middle of the day after he'd sent 500 armed marshalls to escort James Meredith onto the campus of Ole Miss last year. And of course, he was now beyond certain that he never wanted Ella Mae Jensen to be in contact with her father again. That ruled out all of her family.

And that left her friends. Hollywood actors and actresses had an incredibly tight circle. Everyone in the industry knew everyone. And everyone in Hollywood was fond of Barbara Burke. Bob knew he needed to call a man. A woman would be too fainthearted to help another woman through something like this. But unlike Jack, Bobby was not too terribly close to anyone in Hollywood. Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin now vehemently despised him, which Bobby couldn't say he blamed them for. He knew a phone call about a Kennedy screw-up would entail backlash from the both of them. He'd never cared much for Peter Lawford, and didn't want to bring his family into any more of her problems than was necessary... Besides, Peter and Ella had never been particularly close. And then his mind jumped immediately to Marlon Brando.

Bobby had been introduced to Barbara Burke by Marlon Brando, both in real life and on the screen. She'd played his love interest in a picture of his three years back now, and then she'd been his date to a party with him at Bing Crosby's that Jack and Bobby had also attended. That was the first year of his presidency. Jack and Ella had already been sleeping together by that point in time. But it was Marlon Brando, staunch supporter of the Democratic Party and decent enough acquaintance to Bobby Kennedy, that had put an arm around her and introduced her to Bobby. 

He could call Brando. Marlon had a reputation in Washington for being a womanizer with an insatiable sexual appetite and a terrible attitude, but Bobby had always thought him to be a polite man with a nice humanitarian side to him that he'd grown to admire within the last year or so. He'd have to do. She was very close to him; he knew that for a fact.

There was little time to be wasted. Bobby stubbed out his cigarette and made his way to the phone, sifting around for a moment or so for Ella's address book. He thumbed through it for Brando's number, relieved when he found it scrawled out in Ella's neat penmanship. The lawyer dialed the O and fed the number to the operator, crossing his free arm over his chest while the dial tone proceeded.

A foreignly accented woman that Bobby supposed was the housekeeper answered the phone, and he cleared his throat with a deep sigh. "Hello, this is, um, Bobby Kennedy. I'm calling for Marlon Brando, do I have the right number?" He asked.

"Bobby Kennedy?" She repeated, clearly caught off guard. "The—"

"Yes, Bobby Kennedy, ma'am, the Attorney General. I need to talk to Marlon right away if he's there, the matter is urgent."

The woman was silent for a moment. He wondered for a brief moment how Marlon Brando would react to a midday call from a Kennedy. The last time they'd spoken had been at a Democratic fundraiser about a year prior. "Yes, sir."

Muddled silence ensued, and Bobby finished off the last of his drink. Thirty seconds went by, give or take, and finally, he heard a male voice on the other line.

"Hello?" Brando greeted Kennedy, his voice veiled thinly by a layer of nerves.

"Marlon... hi, it's, uh... Bobby Kennedy. Now this is, um... a little awkward, but um... I'm at Barbara Burke's house, and I need your help," he stammered. Again, Bob's mind went to the tap on Barbara's phones, and he resolved that he'd just have to grit his teeth and feel the guilt if he wanted to get her the help she needed. 

"You're at Barbara Burke's house? Is she... is she alright?" 

"No," he replied, bluntly and quickly. "No, she is not. She's... Marlon, my brother got her pregnant, and she's going... well, crazy. She can't carry a coherent conversation, she's drinking and popping pills all the time, she was drunk when I showed up here at ten in the morning, she told me she almost killed herself the other night, she's skin and bones... she's losing her mind, and I need to go back to Washington within the week. I know you two are close. Do you think you can come over here and help her? I don't know who else to call."

And there was Bobby's disdain for wasted time coming to light. He'd ditched the subtleties and gotten straight to it. 

Marlon was quiet for a good fifteen seconds. Bobby knew that was a lot to process. "She's pregnant? How... how far along is she?" 

Bobby set his glass down on the table that held up the phone, biting his lip pensively. "I don't know. I didn't ask. She was hysterical when she told me. Definitely less then, uh, three months."

More dead air, followed by a forlorn sigh. "Of course I'll come help her. I have to admit I'm surprised you called me. But I can be in Newport Beach in about an hour and a half. Does, um... does anyone else know?"

"Besides Hoover and my brother? No. You're the first. And I'll see you then. Can you stay the night?"

"I'll stay as long as she needs me there. She's... a wonderful woman, as you're very well aware, I'm sure," he murmured on the other line.

Bobby sniffled into the receiver, running a hand through his mussed up hair. His voice stiffened as though he'd just been accused of murder. "What do you mean by that?"

This time, Marlon's response came quickly. "What do I mean in saying she's a wonderful woman?"

Bobby rubbed at his shoulder, furrowing his eyebrows as he considered his response. "Nevermind."

There was another period of brief silence, and on the other line, Bobby heard the flick of a lighter. "Alright, then. I'll be there by six o'clock. Thanks for the call, Bobby."

________________________

** _Two and a half years earlier_ **

Bobby's eyes stayed fixated on his drink as the party unfolded around him. He was still new to the world of Hollywood hullabaloo, and he did not know how to take it all in with the ease his older brother amounted to.

All around him was cigarette smoke and happy chatting in Bing Crosby's Palm Springs living room. Across the room, Jack was preoccupied with a conversation with a woman Bobby didn't recognize— no surprise there— and no one was paying the newly appointed Attorney General any mind. Not that he cared. He was a little too drunk for his own liking, and it was getting late. Bob had always been an early riser no matter the circumstances, unlike his brother, and he knew that tomorrow would involve a pounding headache if he didn't get to bed soon.

The scent of marijuana smoke, which he'd come to recognize, tickled his nose as he leaned back in his seat on the couch. He couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt at the fact that there was a Secret Service detail in the next room, and American tax dollars were funding the President's ability to philander with celebrities in California.

"Bobby?" A familiar nasal voice called out to him. The lawyer sat up in place all at once, surprised to see none other than Marlon Brando, with one of the prettiest actresses in all of Hollywood on his arm, standing before him.

"Hello, Marlon. Long time, no see," he coughed, though his eye contact was fixated on the bottle blonde woman beside him. Barbara Burke. The breakout star that had been nominated for an Academy Award that year. She was even more stunning in person. She offered him up a pearly white grin, which he mirrored somewhat bashfully. He took in her cobalt blue, strapless evening gown; her wonderfully curvaceous build; and her lovely rosy cheeks with an intense stare. She was a real bombshell, and he was instantly hooked.

"I'd like you to meet Barbara Burke. Barb, this is Bobby Kennedy," Brando explained with an enthusiastic smile.

"Lovely to meet you," she assured him in a breathy southern accent, extending her hand to his. "Jack's told me a lot about you."

He leaned forward to give her hand an earnest shake, setting aside his drink. "He's mentioned you to me before, too... Glad to know my brother's got so many friends in Hollywood." He realized a bit too late that he gripped her palm for a little longer than intended. Barbara's fingers were so slender. Elegant, even. God, she was gorgeous. "You're even prettier in person, you know it?" The four scotch and cokes he'd had had given Bobby all the courage he needed to flirt with a Hollywood starlet. 

"And you're just as handsome as you were when you interrogated Jimmy Hoffa on television a few years back now... I remember I thought your accent was real silly, but you have a very nice bone structure," she replied, rolling back her shoulders slightly. Her dress gave his eyes easy access to her cleavage, which he welcomed shamelessly.

Bobby shifted in place with a shy smile. The McClellan committee trial was a touchy subject for him. He'd received criticism from Republicans and Democrats alike for his anger-fueled outbursts and nearly exclusive attention on Jimmy Hoffa and the Teamsters Union, whom he vehemently despised. To have a Hollywood starlet compliment his physical attributes amid a low point in his career was bizarre though endearing to him. 

Next to Burke, Brando let out a laugh. "You're the only woman in the world I know who would watch Senate trials and analyze a Kennedy's bone structure," the actor teased, and Barbara giggled, blithely unbothered.

"Well, in any case, I appreciate the compliment. You're even prettier than you are on a projecter screen," Bobby responded cooly. "Are the two of you together?"

"No, no, Marlon's married to a woman he hasn't seen in five months," Burke quipped. And to Kennedy's surprise, rather than appearing embarrassed or ruffled, Marlon chortled. 

"We're together, but not in any official capacity. She's my friend, who happens to be very good in bed." And with that, the globally acclaimed actor pressed a kiss to the top of Barbara's head and removed the arm that was positioned around her waist. "I'm going to get myself a drink. Let me know how it goes."

"Alright, Ducky. Get me a glass of wine, would you? Red."

He affirmed her request with a nod of the head and swaggered off, and Barbara took a seat on the couch beside Bobby. He tried to steal a casual glance at her legs. She leaned towards him, and the rosy scent of Chanel No. 5 filled his nose. "Mr. Kennedy, I'd like to talk to you about something."

"Oh, call me Bobby, sweetheart..." The former Senator urged her. "What's on your mind?" He had no idea what she could possibly be getting at, but his curiosity was piqued. Jack had always described her as a woman full of surprises. 

"Well," she began, clearing her throat. "I want to talk to you about your position on civil rights."

He stared at her in disbelief for a good five seconds, leaning towards her and folding his hands in his lap. "Well, now I know why Marlon introduced you to me."

"It was my idea," Barbara said simply, crossing her legs with a sly smile. "Have you got a cigarette?" The actress drawled.

Bobby laughed beneath his breath, reaching into his suit jacket for his cigarette case and shaking his head as he unfastened the latch. "Why are you bringing it up with me instead of the President?" He asked, handing one of his Camels off to her. She took it in her brightly manicured hand and placed it between her scarlet-painted lips. "He's a little higher up than me, you know," he quipped as he pulled out his lighter.

"Well, you're a big dog, too, and I've already worked on Jack as best I could," she reasoned, taking in her first puff as he lit the end of her cig. "Now, I understand you think that the Negro shouldn't create a ruckus. That he should stay quiet to appease the establishment in order to make any sort of progress, correct?"

He blinked in surprise, running a hand through his hair as he considered a response. "No. I support their right to protest peacefully, and I welcome change. But... I think it's terribly dangerous to purposefully break the law in order to garner change. It gets people hurt, and it lessens the cause, and it greatly—“

"Now, I'm just gonna stop you right there, Bobby, and tell you that you're dead wrong," Burke interjected. "Have you ever been to Jackson, Mississippi?" 

This woman had a lot of gall. And Bobby was nearly positive that he liked it. "No, Miss Burke, I can't say that I have."

"Call me Barbara. Barb if you so please, Mr. Attorney General. Have you ever been to Birmingham, Alabama?" She responded calmly, a puff of smoke exiting her lips.

"No."

"How about Greensboro, North Carolina?"

"I'll just save you the trouble and tell you I have never been to the deep South, Barbara, but that doesn't change my position on—"

"Alright, then, Mr. Kennedy. I'm from Blairsville, Georgia. Born and raised in the land of Jim Crow. I know the South. I know how people down there think. And Mr. Kennedy, let me be frank. My speech to you will be short and sweet: There is no way to calmly end segregation. There was no way to calmly end slavery. In fact, it took a whole war. And that is because all of the South's culture is based on keeping down the Negro. It is not a problem that will go away without the whole nation getting angry about it, just like slavery wasn't. Men are gonna keep getting lynched, little children are gonna keep growing up in fear of making eye contact with a white woman, and rich and pompous whites like you who don't talk to nobody but other rich and pompous whites are going to keep letting it happen. I take offense to your stance, and I challenge you to walk the streets of podunk, Mississippi. Look into the eyes of the colored people there and tell them they gotta keep waiting, Mr. Kennedy. It ain't gonna be an easy task, I promise you."

Bobby stared at her in awe as she took another drag of her cigarette, her eye contact with him never faltering. He was silent for a long moment, his gaze penetrating her deep brown eyes. She was dead serious. He was, quite honestly, impressed with her temerity. Her beauty only seemed to exemplify her bold behavior. "I... will certainly take all of that into account in the future, Miss Burke..."

As if on cue, Marlon returned to the scene with a glass of wine in one hand and a brandy on the rocks in the other. He handed his companion her drink and stared down at Bobby. "She told me she'd take you on a tour of the South if you let her." 

Amid his drunkenness and his befuddlement, Bobby could not think of a particularly eloquent response to anything that had just transpired. "I... I'm sure it would be a very interesting trip," he stuttered.

"You bet your ass it would be."


End file.
